


White - The Baker

by Niitza



Series: Volkslied Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Anna is a cat, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm mean, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pie, Zachariah is a dick, diner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which various people have a bad (to worse) day and Dean tries to make it a little bit better, one slice of apple pie at a time.</p><p>
  <b>(This story is part of a series but works as a standalone and can be read as such.)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	White - The Baker

The sweet and sour smell of baked apples strewn with cinnamon was what greeted Sam when he came down that morning. His brother Dean, the owner of the diner on top of which their small apartment was located, was just bringing a pie out of the oven and carefully setting it on the counter.

"Wow," Sam said, quietly admiring his brother's handiwork. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell since he knew he probably wouldn't get to taste the contrast between the crispy golden crust and the melting warmth of the fruits. Dean was very peculiar about this precise sort of pie and about who was allowed to eat it when he happened to bake one - which he always did for a reason. "What's the occasion?"

Dean shrugged, turning the pie this way and that as if to make sure it was perfect from every angle.

"Oh, you know. Just a hunch."

"A hunch?"

Dean took a step back and nodded. "Today's gonna be a crappy day for several people who'll need a pick-me-up."

"Since when are you psychic?" Sam asked, following his brother through the revolving door leading to the front of the shop.

"Come on, Sam, have you looked outside?" Dean replied as he started fiddling with the coffee machine. Sam automatically stretched up an arm to fetch two cups from a shelf. On the other side of the counter, Benny was putting down the last chairs, getting the room ready for opening time - and behind him the windows revealed a grey, wet morning that seemed reluctant to start the day. "Wait, no, I forget," Dean snorted, snatching the cups from Sam's hand. "You don't know what 'outside' is anymore."

Sam's peeved answer was derailed by the coffee Dean brandished at him at the end of his sentence, followed by the jingle of the front door when Benny flipped the sign to "Open" and their first client of the day stumbled in at once.

"Hey, Kevin," Dean enthusiastically greeted while Benny wordlessly swapped places with Sam behind the counter. Kevin collapsed onto a stool and buried his head in his arms, his only reply a pitiful grunt. Sam sat down a couple of seats away, watching him with concern. Dean went on: "Hate to break it to you, but you look like hell."

Kevin, who still hadn't learned to appreciate Dean's brand of caring, straightened up from his slump just enough to glare. However, the large cup that Benny - efficient as always - set down right in front of him a second later proved to be enough of a distraction. Kevin grasped it gratefully, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of his customized drink - a mix of coffee with extra shot, extra sugar and extra vitamins Benny had come up with just for him because the poor kid sure needed it.

"So, what's up?" Dean asked, toning down his cheer and letting a bit of worry shine through. "You do look worse than usual, man."

Kevin took a long pull from his drink before he replied. "Well, nothing. Apart from the fact that the last chapter of my thesis disappeared from my computer between the time I fell asleep and the moment I woke up this morning."

Dean and Sam winced at the same time.

"I don't know..." Kevin went on. "I don't know how this could happen. I've been working at it for days and I remember working on it last night and making sure to save it every time I finished a paragraph and then I wake up in front of my computer this morning and it's just... gone. All of it, even the half I'm sure I backed up on my external drive. Unless I didn't?" One of his hands came up to clutch at his hair. "Is it possible that I dreamed it all? It's all so clear in my head, I can even remember the turns of phrase I used, but maybe..." He looked up, eyes wide. "I feel like I'm going crazy. Am I going crazy?"

"Okay, why don't you calm down to begin with," Dean said with a tense smile. "Drink a bit of your coffee." Kevin did. "And you might want to cut yourself some slack. You know, get a break, take a day off or-"

"I _can't_ ," Kevin interrupted. "My supervisor is the devil."

"I think that's more or less how everyone feels about his professor," Sam muttered, remembering his own experience while he was getting his master's. Although he had to admit that, from what he'd heard from Kevin, Professor MacLeod seemed keen to redefine the very concept of scholarly sadism.

"At least eat some fruit," Dean added. "Or a salad. You know, something green, with vitamins."

Sam glanced at his brother in surprise. After all, even though salad was offered on the menu, Dean wasn't really the type to actively recommend it. But he guessed this was a special case: Kevin did look terrible in an unhealthy way. He moved a seat closer to the boy while Dean turned on his heels to head into the back.

"Okay, look," Sam said. "I know that right now it feels like you're losing control and everything's going awry but believe me when I say-"

"I was in control," Kevin snapped. He took a mouthful of his coffee and went on, his voice rising: "Until the bloody piece of crap I'm working on decided it would be a great idea to eat my chapter!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the first customers who had started trickling in startle and stare at the shrill exclamation.

"Calm down," he tried to appease, given none of these people deserved to be auditively assaulted before they could drink their morning coffee. "I know you have that impression, but it's just that, an impression. I know you. It's going to be okay. You're smart, you have your data, you know what you're writing about-"

Kevin threw him a crazed and somewhat impatient look. "You don't understand, Sam. I have to-"

"Here." A plate with a generous slice of apple pie landed right in front of the young man, cutting his starting rant right off. Dean had come back and he peremptorily crossed his arms as he ordered: "Eat."

Kevin dumbly stared down at the plate for nearly a minute before he realized that it contained food and that he was quite clearly famished. He seized the small fork Dean had conveniently set on the counter and started wolfing down the pastry like he hadn't properly eaten in days - which, from the way he looked, he probably hadn't. Like he just as probably hadn't slept. Or washed. Or shaved.

Dean threw Sam a significant look. Sam dubiously pursed his lips.

"It's just..." Both brothers turned to Kevin when he unexpectedly spoke again, voice trembling as he stared down at his plate and cut off another piece of pie. "I'm so tired," he said and brought the still warm mouthful to his lips. The disheartened expression on his face grew more and more upset as he chew. He swallowed with difficulty but kept eating - and talking, like he couldn't help it. "And no, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know _why_ I'm doing this. I mean, who cares about Mycenaean Greek anyways? No one, that's who. No one cares, not even me, not anymore. Hell, I don't know if I ever did, although I probably did, since I thought it was worth it to try, but I don't know anymore if it _is_ worth it, if it's the right choice, for me, no, I don't know, I really don't, what the hell was I thinking, how did I even end up in that program, did I think I might be able to succeed? Because I'm not, definitely not, I can't, I can't do this, I-"

He was falling apart on his last mouthful, hyperventilating right there in the middle of the diner. Sam didn't know what to do, hands restless but hesitant; Dean had started digging around, looking for a paper bag. As soon as he unearthed one, he firmly clasped Kevin by the nape and guided his face into it.

"Breathe."

Kevin tried to. Sam glanced around, smiling awkwardly at the other patrons who were still staring. Unfortunately, a regular loosing his shit while sitting at the counter wasn't that rare an occurrence around here. Either they'd get used to it, or they'd have to go buy their coffee elsewhere.

Once the young man had calmed down a little Dean let him go and said: "Okay. Now why don't you let Benny here-" He tilted his head towards his employee, who smiled at Kevin like the friendly bear Sam had to grudgingly admit he was. "-lead you to the back, okay? There is a bed, so you'll take a nap, and then there is a bathroom, so you'll take a shower, and then you'll feel better, okay?"

Kevin nodded, probably because he wasn't in any state to do much else, and didn't oppose any resistance when Benny approached, made him stand up and wrapped a supporting arm around his shoulders to haul him away. Dean watched them go, then went to take care of a couple of new customers. When he came back and snatched the plate that had held the slice of pie to put it in the wash, he threw Sam another look. This time Sam nodded with a shrug, conceding the point.

The morning rush began shortly after that. Jo arrived to start her shift, Benny came back with a reassuring smile, and Sam realized that he'd better not tarry if he didn't want to be late for work.

 

*

 

Castiel woke up slowly, at first perceiving how comfortably he was nestled between his warm sheets, blankets and pillows then sighing and blinking his eyes open. He felt relaxed and almost well-rested - and paused with a frown, because after the extremely late night he'd had to finish his work on the files his boss had assigned to him, he hadn't expected to fare so well. The moment he noticed the light filtering through the blinds, what was left of his drowsiness dissolved to be replaced by a spike of panic.

He abruptly sat up. It was day outside, or nearly, there was no doubt about it. A glance at his alarm clock showed him nothing but the digits 0:00 - a sign that the power had temporarily gone out sometime during the night and rendered it useless. Castiel scrambled for his phone and there the settings were intact, only the secondary alarm he'd programmed in because he knew himself hadn't worked, or it had but he had slept right through it.

What mattered was, he hadn't woken up, and it was now past 8 a.m.

He nearly fell out of bed in his haste to get up, knowing perfectly that it wouldn't change a thing: he was atrociously late. There was no time for a shower or a shave, so he simply snatched a clean shirt from the pile thrown over the back of a chair, waiting for an ironing it would never get, and put on the trousers, jacket and tie he'd left on the floor the night before when he'd stumbled into bed. He passed through the kitchen, glancing longingly at his coffee machine but only stopping to put water and food in Anna's bowls. The red cat wasn't anywhere in sight, which was unusual. Most days, she'd start clamoring for her share were Castiel but five minutes late giving it, slipping into the bedroom through the door he left ajar to mewl at him, pounce onto the sheets and walk all over him if need be - a very efficient wake-up call, if all else had failed to draw him out of sleep. She was sulking, Castiel surmised, still vexed that he'd repeatedly refused to pet her the night before in order to better focus on his work. But he couldn't go look for her to try and coax her out of the corner she'd ensconced herself in this time. It'd have to wait. With a little bit of luck - and a lot of cuddles and rubbing behind her ears over the weekend - he'd still manage to earn her forgiveness.

For now though, he stepped into his shoes, put on his trench coat, snatched his briefcase and keys and rushed out the door.

 

*

 

Dean was once again busy with the coffee machine but didn't need to turn around to recognize the person who had just sat down on the nearest stool. He'd identified the walk, the soft thump of a bag being set down on the ground, accompanied by the slight jingle of a key chain he knew had been bought at ComicCon, and the profound sigh that followed. Therefore he handed the drink he'd just finished to a passing Benny and started at once on another one, already knowing what the order would be.

"Your Highness," he greeted when he turned around and proffered the chalice of coffee.

What he didn't expect, though, was Charlie's puffy red eyes and feeble, faltering smile under her fringe of messy, somewhat tarnished red hair. He felt a surge of concern so strong it briefly tilted his world sideways.

"What's wrong?" he asked, fingers twitching on the countertop, itching to seize his friend's hands - but she'd wrapped them around her cup and he didn't dare risk knock it over and burn her.

"Nothing," she replied bravely. "It's just- I finished reading _The Hobbit_ on Sunday morning."

Dean took a sharp breath that remained stuck in his throat. He knew Charlie had been reading that book - more precisely, he knew to whom she'd been reading it: to her mother, who was at the hospital, had been for years, in a coma after a car accident. Charlie had fought for a long time to find the money to keep her alive, contacting charities, working as much as she could and sometimes resorting to nearly illicit means. She'd run herself raw, hoping, then wishing, then slowly and painfully coming to the realization that her mother wouldn't wake up, that she was already gone.

She'd agreed to have her unplugged and let her go. She'd just asked for the time to read one book to her, like Mrs. Bradbury had read it to her young daughter once.

"So it's- it's done. It's over," Charlie stuttered, fingers tightening around her coffee. "Gilda stayed with me for as long as she could but she had to go back to work this morning and I-"

Her voice, which had been growing fainter and shaky, failed her. She hunched her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut as a couple of tears escaped. Dean had left his spot behind the counter before he could even think about it and opened his arms for her to fall into them as soon as he was close enough. He carefully held her, cradling her head against his chest, and wished he had the words to make it all better. Yet he knew from experience that there were none.

Nothing could make up for the loss of a mother.

Over Charlie's messy hair he met Benny's worried gaze. The man tilted his head towards the kitchen in silent question, to which Dean nodded imperceptibly. He tightened his hold when Charlie let out a small sob, slowly rocking her from side to side. Further down the counter, Jo was manning the till and taking care of anything the customers might require, throwing her boss careful glances but tactfully staying away.

Charlie had quietened down a bit when Benny came back. Dean gently kissed her on the temple before he loosened his hold and guided her to sit back down on her stool. He sat down beside her, then drew the plate Benny had brought towards her, presenting her with a fork. She accepted the slice of apple pie with a weak laugh and leaned into the comforting arm Dean threw around her shoulders as she started eating.

Nothing could make up for the loss of a mother, but you could help cushion the crash.

 

*

 

"I'm waiting, Castiel."

Zachariah Adler was a master in stating the obvious - especially since he was also a master in making you feel his impatience like the buzz and potential sting of an angry bee while stiffly standing several feet away, doing apparently nothing.

Castiel paused in his frantic search through the numerous documents littering his desk in order to avoid crumpling anything when he balled his hands into fists. Instead he slowly breathed out, eyes closed.

"I know," he said, because Zachariah would speak again if he felt he was being ignored, which wouldn't help matters.

Castiel reopened his eyes onto the mess of paper sheets, folders, notes, pens and paper clips covering his work surface - and suddenly knew with stark clarity where he'd left the couple of files Zachariah was demanding: at home, on top of the neatly stacked pile he'd finished working on well after one a.m. and had set on the table, planning to go over them one last time while drinking his coffee that very morning. Only there had been no coffee. In his haste he'd forgotten to slip them back into his briefcase and hadn't noticed it earlier because of the new assignments that had been waiting for him when he'd arrived, requiring his immediate attention.

Knowing even before he started talking that it wouldn't go well, he concisely explained the situation to Zachariah, apologizing and swearing that he would-

"You know, Castiel," Zachariah casually cut in, obviously uninterested in what Castiel had to say - or maybe more interested in making him feel the power imbalance between them than in anything else. "There are a lot of people, just as qualified as you are, that would be delighted to have a job like yours and who, unlike you, would actually be dedicated to doing it efficiently and properly."

These words were followed by a pointed glance. As a rule Zachariah avoided looking at the members of his team in a bid to show them his condescension. He made an exception when he wanted to bring them down a peg, often for reasons only known to himself, or in such cases, when he needed to make sure that a message - or rather veiled threat - had come across.

"I know," Castiel repeated.

Zachariah seemed satisfied with the subdued tone of his voice and smirked.

"Good." His crooked smile disappeared when he added, harsh and businesslike: "I expect these files on my desk by one p.m. Is that understood?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Zachariah lingered near his cubicle a second longer like a sticky stain more likely to spread than to disappear if you tried to make it go away. Castiel waited until he had left of his own volition to collapse in his chair and rub at his face with a sigh. There were times when he wondered why he bothered with all this - the answer being, of course, that he hardly had a choice.

 

*

 

At ten to twelve on the dot, Bobby Singer came in for lunch, like he did everyday. He sat down at his table - which the rest of the customers always left free at this hour, like they could feel it was taken even though it was empty - and ordered his usual: a cup of coffee and the daily special.

The order, of course, was accompanied by a certain amount of grumbling about why the hell did Benny insist on coming up to him every single time to write it down, was he precociously senile or had he been dropped on his head one time too many as a child, Bobby had the same damn thing every damn day, how complicated is that, you idjit?

"Seems to me like he's in top form," Benny commented with an amused smile when he placed the order and took the two burgers Dean had just finished for table 8. Dean grunted, feeling skeptical, but the midday rush was starting and he knew he couldn't slack off now if he didn't want to end up swamped.

When Benny came back with Bobby's empty plate a little over half an hour later, Dean momentarily left Jo in charge of the kitchen and snatched a slice of pie on his way towards the front. He stepped around Tessa, who gave him Bobby's cup of coffee while finishing her first mocha of the day, then walked up to the old mechanic's table.

As soon as he saw that his coffee hadn't come alone, Bobby glanced up to throw Dean a profoundly unimpressed and clearly disapproving look - to which Dean replied with a cheery, almost shit-eating grin as he announced: "On the house!"

Bobby glared. Dean straightened up and crossed his arms. Bobby growled. Dean pointedly raised his eyebrows. Bobby scoffed indignantly, but picked up his fork. Dean nodded approvingly, then turned away to go back to his kitchen. Bobby made sure Dean was still within earshot when he muttered: "Idjit."

Around fifteen minutes later Benny came back from cleaning the table after Bobby's departure with an empty plate, an abnormally large tip and a bemused smile as he passed on a comment for the chef stating that Dean's pie was "almost as good as Karen's".

Dean smiled softly over the onions he was stir-frying. Karen, Bobby's wife, had passed away twenty five years earlier, to the day. She'd been very good at baking pies.

 

*

 

Castiel took advantage of his short lunch break to rush back home and fetch the files Zachariah was expecting. He'd timed his departure in order to catch the bus without having to wait and thus lose as little time as possible.

At first everything went smoothly: the rain that had been falling since morning had momentarily stopped, leaving nothing but puddles and drops glistening off railings and wires; he didn't miss the bus, which didn't get stuck in traffic; he hadn't forgotten his keys and he found the files exactly where he remembered having left them.

He put them carefully in his briefcase and looked around. Anna's bowls had been left untouched. He went to stick his head through the bedroom door, but she didn't peek at him from under the bed - one of her favorite hiding places - nor had she decided to take over the shower. Apparently taking her off his lap three times in a row the evening before had been far too great an offense for her to grace him with her presence so soon after the deed. It had made her leave the room in a huff, maybe even the apartment, using the ridiculously tiny kitchen window Castiel left open almost constantly for her to have access to the nearby roofs and park.

He would've liked to keep looking for her but he'd calculated that he had less than ten minutes between the bus he'd taken and the next one going in the opposite direction, which he needed to catch if he wanted to fetch a sandwich to eat before the end of his lunch break. So he didn't linger, locked the door and took the stairs since the elevator was out of order.

And that was when things went awry. As it turned out, Gabriel Locke, one of his neighbors living on the second floor, had decided that today was yet another Prank Day: in the time Castiel had taken to reach his apartment, fetch his files and come back down he'd smeared black soap on several steps of the last flight of stairs and put up a shield on both ends with a warning and a riddle that should allow the person having solved it to know which steps to avoid if they didn't want to literally - or even figuratively - bite the dust. Castiel read as far as the fifth line of gibberish before he realized he really didn't have time for this and decided to take his chance with a random choice. It was tempting fate, he knew - and so wasn't quite surprised when his foot slipped. He fell, his momentum carrying him down the last steps and onto the floor, knocking the breath out of him. He laid there in shock for a couple of seconds, eyes squeezed shut, then painstakingly climbed back onto his feet.

After checking that everything was still in working order despite the bruises he could already feel blooming, he picked up his suitcase and walked to the door, barely pausing with his hand on the handle to jiggle his leg to try and shake off the slight limp his neighbor's prank had left him as a souvenir.

The bus stop was situated three blocks away and he hastened towards it in spite of the pain throbbing through his left shin and right side, spiking at every step. It slowed him down, or maybe Castiel had miscalculated, or he'd spent too long looking for Anna - the fact remained that when he reached the last corner, it was to see his bus leaving the station further down the street. He let out a weak sound of protest and trotted up to the curb, hoping that he could maybe get the driver to stop for him with a pleading hand gesture. But either the woman he could make out through the windshield didn't see him or she couldn't be bothered to upset the schedule, for the bus rumbled right past him, rolling through a large puddle and splashing the bottom of his trench coat and trousers as well as his shoes. He reflexively stumbled back, each step marked by a squish, and numbly watched as the bus turned around the corner and disappeared.

It started raining again.

 

*

 

The mid-day rush had come and gone and the diner was settling into the quieter, almost soporific first hours of the afternoon when the door chimed open to let through another customer. Dean, who was sitting at one of the tables with his half-eaten lunch, hunkering over some paperwork during his well-deserved afternoon break, looked up and raised his eyebrows at the thoroughly soaked state of the man who'd just arrived.

"Well, hey there, Agent Drowned Rat," he greeted. "A bit late for lunch, don't you think?"

Victor glared sullenly at him but took the invitation when Dean kicked back a chair for him to sit at his table. While the fed was taking off his dripping coat to hang it beside the entrance, Dean caught Tessa's eye over the counter and gestured for a couple of coffees. He then brought his attention back to Victor as the man settled down with a sigh. He had dark circles under his eyes and worried creases on his brow and his lips seemed stuck in a bitter, downward line.

"Bad day?" Dean asked, shuffling his documents to the side.

"Bad night, more like," Victor grunted. "Or, you know, bad week. Hell, bad _month_."

Tessa silently came by with their drinks and one of the rare sandwiches they had left. Victor thanked her and started eating at once, obviously starving.

"I've been on stakeout all night," he explained. "And the guy still managed to slip away. Oh, and running after someone in the rain at half past four in the morning? Not my idea of a good time." He took a large gulp of coffee. "Then there was paperwork, and another obvious crime scene with no body and what little clue there was already being washed off by the freaking shower out there - I swear, it's like the weather's decided that crazy psychos were its new BFFs. And then, of course, there was _more_ paperwork."

"You're aware you're only making me relieved that I didn't listen to you when you tried to convince me to join, right?" Dean asked, trying to lighten up the conversation.

Victor gave him a strained smile. "What can I say? You would've been good, Dean. And that means that I would've been surrounded by at least one person able to do their god damn job. But yeah, you're right." He looked around at the shop Dean had found and bought and renovated from the ground up, at the small universe Dean had created with his own hands and the help of his brother and friends. "Sometimes I wonder what's the point. I give everything for that job, all I have, and at the end of the day, what am I left with? Nothing. Not even the satisfaction of a job well-done or the feeling of being useful to warm me up at night - since, you know, there's no one here to do it."

Dean winced in sympathy. Clearly Victor was still not over his last divorce.

"Come on," he said, painfully aware of how awful he was at cheering people up. "Don't start a pity party on me, will you? You help save people, Vic. And okay, maybe sometimes it doesn't work, or it takes too long, but that's because you can't do everything, man. You're human. But you keep trying. And here's what I know." He caught Victor's eye and held it. "You'll catch this son of a bitch and then you'll gloat about how nice it is to see him in chains like the kinky creep you are and then you'll make sure he can never hurt people again. And then you'll gloat some more."

Victor huffed, clearly skeptical, but the curl of his lips had relented into the shadow of a smile.

"Here, let me get you a refill," Dean added, standing up and snatching up his friend's already empty cup. He patted his shoulder as he passed and slid behind the counter, making a detour by the back room on his way to the coffee machine. He came back with a steaming double espresso and a slice of pie.

"Get your strength back, big guy."

Victor threw him a nonplussed but stern look, yet tucked into the pie without fuss. Dean settled back down to finish his paperwork and keep him company while he ate.

 

*

 

The afternoon found Castiel buried under the insane amount of work Zachariah had piled up on him as a punishment - although it was uncertain if it was for forgetting the files in the first place or actually managing to bring them on time despite the obstacles, thus depriving Mr. Adler of a good reason to fire him in front of everyone. Zachariah had had to satisfy himself with sneering at his employee's disheveled state and wet clothes before snapping at him to get out of his office before he ruined the carpet.

Castiel weathered another phone call from a discontent service asking for figures he didn't have yet and closed his eyes after he'd hung up, massaging his temples. He could feel a headache coming up, a white hot wire of pain slowly wrapping itself tight around his brain. The bottom of his trousers as well as his suit jacket were still damp, making him sniffle. His throat was parched from racing all the way from his flat, he was running on an empty stomach and the sympathetic glances his cubicle neighbor Inias kept throwing at him were more tiresome than comforting.

He almost startled when he reopened his eyes and found one of their intern standing right in front of his desk. For all his apparent blue-eyed innocence, the boy could move as silently and swiftly as a trained assassin.

"What is it?" Castiel asked, trying to sound calm and patient. Alfie didn't deserve to take the brunt of his discomfort, especially since he already had to put up with Zachariah, among others.

The young man answered with a small, shy smile and a steaming cup that he carefully set down on Castiel's desk. "This is for you."

Castiel blinked at the coffee, then at the intern. "Thank you," he said, and nothing he'd uttered today had been more heartfelt.

Alfie's smile widened and he lingered while Castiel seized the cup and rummaged through his drawers, searching for any crackers he might have left to eat as a poor substitute for lunch. "Are you okay?"

Castiel opened his mouth to give him the evading reassurance that he would be fine, but another voice interrupted their conversation before it could begin:

"Mr. Hike."

The steady background noise of people typing on their keyboards or shuffling through sheets of papers faltered, then started up again with a more rushed, hushed assiduity. Both Castiel and Alfie had tensed and looked up at the woman who had spoken. Her lips were curved into a smile that offset the severity of her grey pantsuit and tight bun but didn't reach her eyes. She kept them riveted on Alfie as she said: "When we hired you as an intern, we thought, as you had claimed in your application letter and during your interview, that your intention was to gain valuable work experience - not waste your time chatting with employees who themselves should be focusing on their tasks." At that she gave Castiel a cold glance. "And yet this is far from being the first time I find you loitering instead of doing what you've been told and in spite of the repeated warnings you've been given." Her smile never wavered and her voice remained uniformly pleasant as she went on: "I must conclude that we misunderstood each other from the start. Therefore I'm sorry, but we'll have to let you go. Please leave now." She raised a hand when Alfie parted his lips to protest, the steel of her posture and tone briefly showing through her poised demeanor. "You don't need to say anything; and don't come back."

The boy stared at her incredulously for a couple of seconds, then deflated and turned away to go pack his things. Naomi raised an eyebrow at Castiel's indignant frown then addressed the room at large, knowing perfectly that everyone had been listening:

"It's tax season. As you all know, we can't afford any distraction, especially not when it has to do with something as insignificant and disruptive as gossip. You are here to do your job, and only your job. Anyone who doesn't understand that is free to leave."

She let her eyes slide from one desk to the other, then come back to Castiel to make sure he'd understood what she meant. He had. She nodded to herself in satisfaction and left the room, her smile never leaving her lips.

Castiel reluctantly went back to work. He drank his coffee, but found it tepid and tasting of nothing but the bitter tang of guilt.

 

*

 

Towards the end of the afternoon, Krissy flounced into the diner with all the dramatic flourish of the teenager she spent a lot of time pretending not to be: nearly punching the door open and letting it slam shut behind her while she stomped to a table in the corner, slammed her bag down onto the floor and threw herself into the chair, paying no heed to the stares directed at her. Dean blinked at her several times from where he'd been chatting with Missouri, one of their old regulars, then excused himself and crossed the room to slide into the other seat.

Arms crossed and eyebrows tightly drawn together, the young girl stubbornly avoided his gaze, glaring at the wall like it had personally offended her. Dean, who had had to put up with Sam during his exceedingly long rebellious phase, simply made himself comfortable and waited. When it came to sulky mules, his patience had no limits - if only because it made it all the sweeter when they finally caved in. Which Krissy did, faster than he'd expected.

"I won't be able to come in before six till the end of the week," she said between clenched teeth, then mumbled an explanation: "I have detention, starting tomorrow."

"Okay," Dean replied noncommittally. He'd learned from experience that it was better not to ask what she'd done to warrant it.

"They say next time they'll call my dad."

At that Dean nodded slowly, not needing her to say anything else to know that this was the core of the problem. Krissy had been coming to the diner between school and the start of her shift instead of dropping by her flat for over a week now, which meant that her father had gone AWOL once more and that she didn't want to be confronted to the silence of empty rooms back home. If the school called they'd realize the situation and there was no doubt child services would get involved - and Dean might not have much patience for deadbeat dads who didn't know how to deal with their own problems and made their kids suffer for it, but if there was one thing Krissy didn't want, it was to be separated from hers for good. The only time Dean had cautiously tried to broach the subject with her, their conversation had turned into a fight that'd put the arguments between Sam and their father to shame and had ended with her not showing up for months. Things were better now, especially since she'd turned sixteen and started working here, and the last thing Dean wanted was to upset the balance. Better to shut up so that she stuck around, where he and his friends could keep an eye on her and help as much - and as discreetly - as they could. It didn't hurt that this way she also spent less time alone in the dump she called home or hanging about the less than nice neighborhood it was in. So he simply said:

"I'll have Bela fill in." She usually only worked Saturdays and Sundays, devoting her week to other activities Dean preferred not to ask about, but she was often inclined to come in anyway if he asked nicely and was ready to pay extra. "So," he added, knocking on the table. "I'll leave you to your homework."

Krissy rolled her eyes at his unsubtle hint - and then again when Tessa brought her a warm chocolate and a slice of pie, but by then Dean was upstairs at home, quickly catching an episode of _Dr. Sexy MD_ before the late afternoon rush.

 

*

 

Castiel only noticed that he had a couple of missed calls when he stepped out of the office, having given up on making any more progress today in the state he was in. He frowned down at the screen, not recognizing the number, but called back anyways as he started to walk towards the bus stop.

It was, as it turned out, the animal clinic.

"Good evening," he replied to the young woman greeting him on the other end of the line. "My name is Castiel Milton, you tried to join me earlier?"

"I don't think-" she started, confused, before she suddenly corrected herself: "Wait, no, yes, we did. I mean, Dr. Richardson did, she left a message when she couldn't reach you. It's here somewhere, I just have to find it - here." The sound of shuffling paper stopped. "That's it, she tried to call you, it's- Oh."

Castiel stopped walking at the sound of that _Oh_. Someone bumped into him from behind and cursed as they passed, but he didn't pay them any heed.

"It's- I'm really sorry, Sir," the young woman spoke again, soft and hesitant. "And I don't know how to say this, but... Your cat's been brought in this morning. She was hit by a car and... She didn't make it. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Castiel let out, like a belated echo.

"I'm really sorry, Sir. Do you- do you want to come for her?"

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, closed it.

"Sir?"

"I don't-" he finally managed. "I mean, yes, of course, I think, if it's-" There were probably things you had to do, when your pet died, things he had to do at the clinic, documents to sign and maybe some sort of burial to discuss, how he could or wanted to dispose of- of the body. He didn't know. He had no idea - and the clinic probably did, they probably often had to deal with such situations, only it was so late and- "When are you closing?"

"At half past eight, Sir."

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to swallow. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it by then. I'm too far away, in town, I- Would it be possible for you to, to keep her? Overnight? I don't know-"

"Of course, Sir," the young woman was swift to reassure him. "She'll go into the cold room. You can come tomorrow, or later if you want."

"No, I- tomorrow, I'll be here tomorrow. Thank you."

"It's the least we can do," she replied helplessly. Several seconds passed in silence before she added: "There's something else. The man who hit her, he asked if he could get your number. I think he would like to apologize in person. Maybe settle matters of insurance? Is it okay if we give it to him?"

"Yes, of course," Castiel replied.

He could hear someone else starting to talk in the background on the other end of the line, then the young woman spoke again: "I'm sorry, Sir, but I have to go. Dr Richardson-"

"Oh, yes, of course. Sorry for keeping you, I- Have a good evening."

She hesitated. "You too, Sir."

The communication ended with a click. Castiel remained standing on the street, not feeling the cold or dampness of the fallen night, seeing and hearing nothing of the people and cars passing by. His bus had come and gone.

After a while, he put his phone back into his pocket and began to walk.

It was still raining.

 

*

 

The day was drawing to an end and Dean was looking forward to topping it off with his own slice of apple pie, which he'd just put into the microwave to warm up a bit. Unfortunately for him, Jo - whose shift had ended hours ago but who had come back to the shop for dinner - had set her sights on it and wouldn't stop nagging him.

"Pretty please?" she wheedled, batting her eyelashes and ducking her head to try and catch his eye as he wiped down the counter.

"I told you, _no_ ," Dean retorted, slightly irritated by her insistence. "It's my slice and your day has been nowhere near shitty enough to warrant you getting priority over the maker, a.k.a. me."

"Come on, my mom's been riding my ass all week. I need some comfort food."

And just like that the easy banter turned sour because, well. Dean knew more than one person around here who would love to still have a mom to constantly be on their back. Yet he managed to bite his tongue.

"Drop it, Jo," he said with a warning look, hoping she'd stop before he snapped and said something they'd both regret.

She pouted with a slightly puzzled frown and was probably about to ask him what had crawled up his ass when the door jingled open behind her, announcing the entrance of what was probably going to be their last customer of the day.

The man in question looked not as much exhausted as simply defeated, with dark hair wetly slumping over a pair of lost eyes and cheeks covered in rough, messy stubble. His damp coat hung heavily on his shoulders, partly hiding the rumpled, ill-fitting dark blue suit underneath. He stood on the threshold for a couple of seconds, as if in a daze, then blinked and slowly made his way to the counter. By the time he reached it Dean had taken out a couple of towels for him to dry himself and sit on so as to not damage the leather of the seat.

The man took them gratefully and ordered a coffee.

"You okay, pal?" Dean asked over his shoulder while he prepared the drink.

His question was followed by a short, somewhat startled silence before the man answered: "Yes, I'm fine. I'm just- I'm having a bad day."

"Oh yeah? Frequent around these parts today," Dean commented as he turned around. He put the warm cup down, pushed it towards his customer and crossed his forearms on the counter. "So, lay it on me."

The man stared at him uncomprehendingly. His eyes were a deep, liquid blue, like the rain falling outside hadn't simply drenched his hair and coat but soaked through his irises as well. When he dropped them back to the counter, Dean felt strangely out of kilter, like he'd momentarily lost his footing and hadn't quite managed to regain his balance afterwards. He leaned more heavily on his elbows as he finally got a reply, the man's voice nothing but a hoarse whisper:

"My cat died today."

"Oh," Dean whispered. He cleared his throat. "Sorry." He didn't know what to say to that. Being allergic, he tried to avoid cats as much as possible, and even dogs were more Sam's thing than his, really.

"And an intern was fired because of me," the man went on, still not looking up.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you could get fired from an internship. I mean, isn't it supposed to be all about poor students getting exploited without even being paid?"

The man sighed, hunching in on himself. "Apparently, you can."

"Man, what kind of douchebags do you work for?"

Dean belatedly realized that insulting the guy's employers might not be the best of ideas, but was reassured by the shadow of a sarcastic yet resigned smile his reaction elicited.

"An accounting firm. I don't think you'd know it."

"Wow, try to sound less enthusiastic about that, will you." The man didn't reply, taking a small sip of his coffee and closing his eyes like he was savoring the taste. "You could quit in protest," Dean suggested.

"I could," the man agreed. "But it wouldn't change anything. Besides," he added with a sigh, "I really need the job." A pause. "And Alfie really needed that internship."

Dean hummed with a thoughtful nod. He and Sam had been there, in the past, when Sam had been in college. Back then everything had been a mess, their life, dad, themselves. Dean had jumped on any job opportunity he could find just to make ends meet and Sam had taken internships in any place that'd have him to boost his applications for grad school and - hopefully - a scholarship, trying to make up for his mangled school records, chopped by their constant moving and the bad luck that followed them around. Most of the time they'd found themselves saddled with endless, thankless tasks no one else had wanted to take on, carried out in conditions Dean was pretty sure hadn't been legal. But they'd persevered, and Sam had made good on his full ride, gotten the lawyer job he'd dreamed of and helped Dean start the diner as soon as he could. Now Dean's biggest concern was that his brother would forget that there was more to life than his office and the paperwork he apparently delighted in drowning in and Sam's was that he couldn't always be here to prevent his boss from scaring off too many interns - a thought that made Dean straighten.

"Hey, Sammy!" he called.

"It's Sam, you jerk," his brother retorted from his table in a corner, not even looking up from the document he was annotating.

"You still one intern short since Devereaux sent Garth running for the hills?"

"Ash keeps whining that having to go fetch his coffee himself because the ones we have are too busy cramps his style, so yes."

"Awesome." Dean turned back to the man who had finally looked up, eyes wide. "You got the kid's contact, right?"

"... Yes."

"Okay." Dean snatched his order pad and pen and wrote an address, phone number and email. "Tell him to send his CV there. I can't give you any guarantees, and maybe it's not even close to what he's looking for, but Sam can put in a good word for him if he's interested. The boss is kind of crazy, but not a bad guy, so. There." He ripped the piece of paper free and pushed it across the counter.

The man stared down at it, stared up at Dean. "Thank you."

Dean inexplicably felt himself flush. "It's nothing," he replied, busying himself by straightening up the counter and checking the reserves. The man took out his cellphone and started writing a message at once, glancing at the note in front of him like it might disappear and prevent him from telling his former colleague about this opportunity. Dean couldn't help but notice how slowly and carefully his fingers moved, like they weren't used to typing on a phone - and forced himself to turn away to wipe the coffee machine.

The shop was quiet now, almost empty. The customers occupying the last table had just left. Jo and Krissy were talking in low voices while the teenager cleaned the tables, Sam was leafing through his files and the radio was softly playing in the background. Dean wasn't listening for it but he heard when the man put his phone onto the counter once he'd finished, when it buzzed shortly after, when the man picked it back up and said: "Oh."

It wasn't a happy sound.

"What is it?" Dean asked as he moved to the microwave on his left, wondering what the kid might've to say against the offer he'd been made.

"It's from my neighbor, Michael. He is, apparently, the one who ran over my cat with his car." The man's voice hitched slightly. "He apologizes and offers to buy me a new one in compensation."

Even Dean knew that that wasn't being tactful. "What a dick," he muttered as he opened the microwave door to wipe the inside - and found his slice of pie waiting there, still lukewarm. With the arrival of his customer and his epically crappy day, he had completely forgotten about it.

"She- I didn't even buy her," said customer went on. "She was a stray I found. It was in the countryside, I was taking a walk and she was stuck in that gigantic tree. I nearly broke my neck bringing her down. She wasn't tagged and she didn't have a collar, but she followed me all the way back to the house, and she stayed. I didn't have the heart to leave her when I went back to the city, I-" His voice broke. "She's been with me for five years."

Dean glanced at the man, at his hands curled so tightly around his cup that his knuckles were turning white. He glanced back at the pie. Felt torn for about two seconds. Then he let out a short breath and seized the plate to put it on the counter.

"Here," he said, pushing it forward. "You sound like you need it."

"I didn't-" the man started to protest, confused, but Dean cut him off: "On the house."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see that Jo had stopped talking to Krissy and was now staring at him, mouth agape.

The man accepted the pie with another, quiet thank you and took the fork Dean reached out to him to cut off a piece that he brought to his mouth - and Dean couldn't for the life of him explain why he suddenly felt so nervous.

"This is delicious," the man said.

Dean cleared his throat, rubbed at his nose. "Yeah, well. It's kind of my speciality. Family receipt." He grinned. "Particularly advisable on crappy days."

The man smiled back, small and soft, amused and almost secretive. Dean felt strangely breathless.

"So, what were you doing in the countryside?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation onto safer grounds.

"I was helping a man tend to his bees."

"Bees?" Dean repeated, not sure he'd heard right.

"They're amazing creatures," the man simply replied in between mouthfuls of pie. "And the honey is divine."

"I use honey in my pies."

"Then I could bring some back to you next time I go. As a thank you."

The man had looked up to smile right at him this time and Dean suddenly realized how heavily he was resting on the counter, leaning right into the guy's space. He straightened up slightly.

"Hum. Yeah. You do that." He cleared his throat, smiled, snatched his towel back up to wipe at the already spotless counter. "If you want. That'd be nice."

The man stared at him for several seconds, then looked around. "You're closing up," he said, apparently noting the time for the first time.

"Kinda, yeah. But you don't have to-" Dean tried to say when he saw the customer quickly eat his last piece of pie and swallow the rest of his coffee in one long gulp.

"You were so nice to me," the man retorted, already standing up. "The least I can do is make sure I don't prevent you from going home."

"Thanks, but-"

Home was right upstairs, hell, home was the diner itself, so it wasn't like Dean had a long way to go. But it might not be the case for his customer, who still looked tired, if a bit better.

Dean simply didn't want him to go just yet.

"Are you open on the week-end?" the man asked. "I'd like to come back."

"Saturday all day and Sunday for brunch," Dean replied automatically, then smiled. "The hours are by the door."

The man nodded. "Thank you again..." he let his voice trail off.

"Dean," Dean supplied.

"Dean," the man repeated, slowly, carefully, like he was committing the name to memory. Dean hoped he was. "I'm Castiel."

He carefully folded the towels they'd given him when he'd arrived, fumbled with the lapels of his still damp trench coat, straightened his sleeves. He paused.

"I should be going," he said. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Bye, Cas," Dean replied. "See you."

Castiel nodded, turned away, and left. Dean watched him go, then glanced down to where he'd been sitting just a moment earlier, at the empty cup and plate. He picked up a fork from the holder nearby and started to scrape the remaining crumbs of crust and bits of apple with a distracted smile. Once they were gathered in a small heap he brought them to his lips, closing his eyes.

It wasn't much, but it tasted like heaven.

 

*

 

_END_


End file.
